The Devil Went Down to Georgia
by Night Monkey
Summary: Where he bought the soul of a Congressman, confronted a traitor, wore a spiffy sunhat, and ruined a perfectly good suit. Meg/Crowley. Now continued.
1. Georgia

This fic was inspired by a friend who believes the world needs more Meg/Crowley. I decided to do my part.

* * *

The old man stood sweltering in the Georgia summer sun, sweat trickling down his ruddy face and his hands constantly in motion, always kneading his tie or fiddling with his shirt buttons or dabbing at his brow. His eyes were likewise in eternal animation, roving from the freshly turned earth at his feet, to the four roads that branched out cardinally from his position, to the sun that didn't care how many terms he'd served in Congress and roasted him with impartial heat. The aged Congressman sighed. What he wouldn't give to be somewhere air-conditioned. Hell, he'd sell his soul for a cold glass of lemonade.

The thought brought a wry smile to the Congressman's face. Selling his soul. What in the world had he been thinking? How desperate, and let's face it, _crazy_ did you have to be to drive to the middle of nowhere, bury a box full of trinkets and junk, and expect demons to save not only your marriage and career, but also your very freedom?

Damn it, if he was that big of a moron, he probably deserved to be in prison.

Hating himself, the whistle-blowing intern, and basically everything else that walked, crept, swam or drafted bills anywhere on Earth, the Congressman turned from the crossroad. He managed a single step south, toward his car, when a strange noise caught his attention. It sounded almost like…fingers being snapped. The Congressman looked over his shoulder and nearly solved all his problems by having a heart attack twenty miles from the nearest human.

"Changed your mind? I wouldn't if I were you. Somehow I don't think the prison 'lifestyle' will agree with your morality," the magician said.

"Who are you?" the Congressman asked.

"A demon. What did you think you were summoning, the ghost of Ronald Regan?"

The Congressman swallowed thickly. "I… I don't think I can go through with it."

The demon shrugged. "It's your soul, you can do what you like with it. Though I don't foresee said soul being much of a deterrent against a three-hundred-pound degenerate who doesn't approve of your voting record."

Suddenly, despite the sun and humidity, the Congressman felt immersed in ice. He wouldn't survive five minutes in prison. He'd survived the fickle tides of popular opinion, the election of a black president, and two heart surgeries, but being locked in a shoebox of a room with a thousand maniacs surrounding him day and night, that would be worse than Hell.

"I see your point, Mister…"

"Crowley."

"Crowley, got it. Can you clear up this boondoggle I've gotten myself into?"

"If the price is right," Crowley replied.

"My soul, right? Am I gonna miss it?"

"Do I look like a heartless bastard to you? I'm not going to take it _today_. You get ten years of loyal service to your country before I come to collect. Until then, you won't notice a difference."

The Congressman nodded. "Ten years is a long time. I can do a lot with ten years. Alright, Crowley, you've got yourself a deal."

Crowley beamed.

"So, that's it? Do we shake on it, or is there some contract I sign?"

"Nothing so clichéd. Pucker up."

The Congressman looked like he'd been told to stick his head underwater and breathe like a fish. "What?"

Crowley pressed his lips together in demonstration.

"Oh, no. No, anything but that."

Crowley shrugged. "As I said, it's your soul. Though I can't foresee the judge and jury having mercy on it. Nor the prison population. Which is, or so I've heard, predominantly of a different skin tone than yours."

"God, please."

"By all means, beg _him_ to intercede on your behalf. He wouldn't do it for his bloody angels when one of them was slaughtering the rest, but maybe he'll do it for you."

The Congressman brought a hand up to his mouth and nibbled at his knuckle. Sweat trickled down his face and soaked the collar and armpits of his shirt. The waterworks were only half-related to the temperature.

"Nobody would know, right?" the Congressman asked.

"Does it look like I have a live studio audience?"

"No. Fine, let's get this over with."

The Congressman closed his eyes and pulled a face more appropriate for discovering a rotting corpse than for kissing. Crowley was unperturbed by the unbridled disgust exhibited by his partner and grabbed what little hair the Congressman hadn't shed over the past 70 odd years. The Congressman's expression turned from revulsion to surprise—which was marginally better—and Crowley plastered his lips firmly against the politician's.

The kiss quickly turned into a farce as Crowley resolutely hung on to the Congressman's hair and the increasingly agitated man struggled to free himself. Just as the Congressman gathered enough of his wits to attempt punching Crowley, the demon released him. The Congressman's first gesture upon regaining his freedom was to fall to the ground and retch.

Crowley wiped his own mouth. "I can't possibly taste any worse than you do. When's the last time you brushed?"

The Congressman rose to his knees and scowled at Crowley. Crowley had been scowled at by everything from Leviathans to murderous angels, and an angry, antiquated politician didn't exactly measure up.

"Now what in God's name is this? You told me nobody would know! Who's she?" the Congressman suddenly demanded, pointing, seemingly, at Crowley's stomach.

"I don't know what you mean. Who? My navel?" Crowley asked, looking down at himself.

"No, you jackass! _Her! _Behind you!"

Crowley turned around and, for the first time in a very long time, words failed him.

Crowley had never seen the meat-suit before—it was attractive enough, he supposed, especially since most girls in the region looked like Leatherface's gap-toothed sister—but the demon inside was unmistakable. He'd last visited her two weeks prior, and she'd been strapped to the same rack in the same deserted corner of Hell where she'd been detained since her capture.

The question, then, was this: why was she here, intruding upon his business transactions, when she should have been back in Hell, having her feet roasted and her eyebrows plucked out?

"Hello, Crowley," Meg said.

Crowley snorted.

"Who sent you to follow me? What goddamn agency hired you?" the Congressman shouted.

Crowley wheeled around to face the Congressman. The demon's eyes flashed red and the human lost his bluster in a hurry. Shrinking back to the ground, where he belonged, the Congressman shut his mouth and dropped his accusatory pointing finger.

"We're finished. Leave," Crowley ordered.

The Congressman nodded and, without daring to look Crowley in the face, scurried back to his car with his head down. Regardless of anyone or anything that might have wandered onto the roadway, the Congressman sped away at a speed the deserted dirt road had probably never seen before.

Crowley turned back to Meg. His eyes continued to glow a very displeased red.

"Surprised to see me?" Meg asked.

"Among other things," Crowley replied.

"Furious, enraged, incredulous, livid, madder than a wet hen—"

"Please, spare me the local colloquialisms," Crowley interrupted.

Meg batted her eyelashes at him. "Alright, but only because you said please."

Meg's teasing only served to elevate Crowley from madder than a wet hen to madder than a dragon who just returned to his lair to find the damned Winchesters had been there and had rescued all his virgins and absconded with all his gold.

"Without invoking the wit of Bill Clinton, tell me why you're here and not where you belong."

"You mean being slow-roasted in Hell?" Meg asked.

"Where else would I mean?"

Meg shrugged. "Maybe because _I was being slow-roasted in Hell_."

"Millions of souls have been slow-roasted in Hell! They didn't just decide to get up and leave!"

"Calm down, your Majesty. You know I'm not just any soul. I know Hell better than damn near anyone. Pun intended."

The last thing Crowley intended to do was calm down. He'd gnaw his own leg off before he'd calm down. He'd throw himself down into the Georgia clay and cover himself from head to Italian leather loafer in dust before he'd calm down. He'd—

"If your face freezes like that, you're going to be in trouble."

Crowley took a deep breath and forced his face into a mask of composure. No matter how angry he was to find Meg had slipped past the demons he'd assigned to torture and guard her, there was no need to throw a tantrum. He'd get to work his rage and disappointment out on all of their hides just as soon as he got answers.

"You've been down there for months—decades, by Hell Standard Time—so why now? Finally reached your masochistic quota?" Crowley asked.

"Finally got your boys to let down their guard. You shouldn't take it too hard, though. Months of functioning before their ADHD kicked in? That's got to be a new record."

That almost sent Crowley howling over the edge again. He should never have trusted the task of destroying Meg utterly to anyone but himself. If only he hadn't been so busy… No, he should have known better! Leaving demons unsupervised, even for a moment, was more foolish than leaving children alone with matches and gasoline.

Next time he was going to hire illegal immigrants. Maybe they'd be able to manage the simplest of tasks without turning everything into a fiasco.

"Yes, and here's another reason to stay on the sunny side. Now you'll have company," Crowley said. He advanced a step towards Meg.

And she flinched. Oh, she straightened quickly and pretended like nothing had happened, but Crowley wasn't blind. Meg was scared. Under the façade of calm and flippant sarcasm, there was the fear of being dragged back to Hell and reinstalled in a never-ending nightmare of pain and fire.

Crowley smiled. Everything was again right with the universe. He was assured of his position as the apex predator, the highest link in the food chain, the King.

"Don't tell me you expected anything else. Did you think I was going to forgive and forget that you tossed in your lot with Rocky and Bullwinkle and their pet dodo?" Crowley asked.

"Not exactly," Meg admitted.

Crowley rolled his eyes. He had hoped—for about five seconds, at least—that Meg wasn't as dumb as other demons. As faithless and treacherous, yes, that couldn't be avoided, but maybe not quite so bloody stupid. He didn't even know why he bothered expecting anything from anyone anymore.

"Then why are you here?" Crowley asked.

"Because I can convince you to forgive and forget," Meg replied.

Interesting. Doubtlessly complete bollocks, but interesting nevertheless.

"I'll take that bet," Crowley said.

Meg opened her mouth but Crowley hushed her by holding up his hand. "I have a sneaking suspicion this performance is going to be longer and more painful than _Titanic_. I'm going to need snacks."

Crowley disappeared and Meg was left alone—not to mention offended and confused—in the middle of the rural intersection. The awkwardness of being left stranded took its toll and before long Meg became shiftless. She toed the dirt with the tip of her shoe, paced a little, and considered getting off the road and under a shady tree. A part of her even began to suspect that Crowley wasn't coming back and she was free to go, though a much larger facet of her mind assured her she wasn't getting off that easily.

Any hope that Crowley had displayed uncharacteristic mercy crumbled to dust the moment the demon king reappeared. Crowley's new hat alone destroyed any notion he considered Meg anything but a cheap joke; a wide-brimmed straw sunhat resplendent with a large black bow was not worn around respected friends and colleagues. The glass of lemonade likewise showed Crowley's dismissal. And the plastic lawn chair, now that was just insulting.

"Is that really necessary?" Meg asked.

Crowley sat down and sipped his lemonade. "I've got sensitive skin and I don't want sunburn."

"I guess the thinning hair doesn't cover much," Meg muttered.

"Weren't you supposed to be begging for your life or freedom or some other such thing I can take away with a snap of my fingers?" Crowley asked.

"I know secrets about Hell no one else does. Secrets that can't be tortured out of me, but which I'd be happy to share in exchange for amnesty," Meg said.

"You mean secrets of the old regime. Azazel's cubbyholes and porn stashes. Very intriguing," Crowley said.

"That isn't remotely what I meant."

"Shame, because I was being serious. I've always suspected your father was a furry and I'd love to have my suspicions confirmed."

Meg bristled like a cornered porcupine. This conversation was not going her way. Though it was hard to imagine a conversation that was going positively when one involved party suggested the other involved party's father had a predilection for cartoon ponies.

"I—"

"Haven't got all day? Good, neither do I. You have until I finish my lemonade to convince me you're useful, or it's back on the rack you go," Crowley interrupted.

"I was Azazel's confidant. I know plans he never had a chance to enact, spells he discovered, secrets he never told anyone else. You could have weapons you never dreamed about," Meg said.

Crowley took a long swallow of lemonade. When he was finished, he said, "You don't know the dreams I've had. Or the pillow-talk I've heard."

"You never slept with my father."

Crowley raised a lascivious eyebrow. "No? Then who was that handsome golden-eyed devil?"

Meg suddenly looked a little green around the gills. "You're lying."

"There's no better spy than a good whore," Crowley said. "And there isn't a potential source of information I won't exploit. I'm sure you heard rumors of Lilith and I. They don't scratch the surface."

Meg was floundering, and if her chances for escape weren't already sunk, they were taking on water at an alarming rate. If Crowley wasn't lying—and there was no sign the bastard was—then her information, the information she had been so sure was invaluable and uniquely hers, was nothing but pyrite.

And, to make matters worse, her dad—and probably half of Hell—had been stupid enough to give Crowley the knowledge he had needed to emerge victorious and claim the throne for his own. If the Winchesters hadn't killed him, Azazel would have been pissed.

"So there is nothing," Crowley said.

Meg swallowed thickly. "I've still got time. You haven't finished your lemonade."

Crowley looked down at the quarter-full glass. He raised it to his lips and looked at Meg expectantly.

"Shit," Meg whispered to herself.

There had to be a way out of this. So her precious secrets were worth less than Zimbabwean currency. That only meant she needed…to formulate a new strategy from scratch, invent some wild and invaluable assets she totally didn't have, and convince the King of Hell, who incidentally hated her, that she had more functions than just entertaining him as a screaming, skinless horror on the rack.

"Tick, tock, darling," Crowley said, plucking an ice cube from the glass and dropping it into his mouth.

The ice cube shattered and crunched as Crowley bit down on it. Meg, demon and damned or not, prayed for the few seconds brain freeze would buy her. God was evidently not on her side and Crowley swallowed and went fishing for the last ice cube.

"Going once, going twice." Crowley lifted the ice cube against his lips. "G—Umph!

Meg did the first thing that came to mind: she tackled Crowley and drove him, his ice cube, and his tacky lawn chair to the ground. He recovered within seconds and raised a hand to swat her away. She reacted by turning into an octopus and clutching Crowley with her arms and legs.

"This is not earning you any brownie points," Crowley hissed.

It was well within Crowley's power to extricate himself—and probably yank all four of Meg's limbs off in the process—so Meg knew she had to act quickly. Her new position atop the King gave her some much-needed inspiration. There was no denying the sexual undertones in the arrangement of the pair, and Meg decided to run with it.

"How about this?" Meg asked. She pressed her lips against Crowley's. He made no move to reciprocate. When she withdrew, disheartened, she found him smirking.

"You're not half the kisser your father was," Crowley said.

The slap was so loud that, given the proper geography, it would have echoed. Crowley could feel each of Meg's fingers independently imprinted on the skin of his cheek. Heat and pain bloomed, radiating out from the perfect handprint. Crowley continued to smirk.

"Mmm, and you're not half the slapper Alastair was."

Meg slapped him again, branding the opposite cheek. "What about now?"

"Count me unimpressed."

Meg considered her meat-suit. What could it do that would squeeze a reaction, any reaction except that insufferable smirk, from Crowley? It wasn't double-jointed, so it couldn't literally bend over backwards to perform some weird scene from the Kama Sutra. It wasn't tall or short, fat or thin enough to invoke any sort of body-type fetish, unless Crowley had a special thing for women with lots of shoulder freckles. Which he obviously didn't, as said shoulder freckles had been clearly visible the whole time, thanks to the meat-suit's spaghetti straps.

Damn it, next time she was possessing a circus freak or a gymnast, always assuming there was a next time.

"If you're finished, I've got an underworld to rule and you've got a cell that misses you," Crowley said.

It was now or never. Meg took a deep breath and went all in. Her eyes flashed black and she hooked her meat-suit's acrylic nails into the lapels of Crowley's suit.

"Tear one thread and you're going to regret it," Crowley warned.

"Shut the hell up, Lucky the Leprechaun."

Buttons flew and seams rendered.

* * *

By the time they were finished, there was little of the suit left to salvage. It hung off Crowley in tatters, like the uniform of some poor sod showcased on _Locked Up Abroad_. And where even was his left shoe? Meg had torn it off, barely leaving the toes behind, and had probably flung it into a bush.

"Your Majesty, it's over there," Meg called, pointing behind a large rock on the side of the road.

Crowley hobbled over to the rock and retrieved his shoe. He then sat down on the flat-topped stone and slipped the loafer back on.

Polishing a scuff off his shoe, Crowley said, "Do you think a single quick shag is enough to make me forget you betrayed me, kissed my angel, and killed my dog?"

Meg froze. She had, up until that moment, thought exactly that.

"Because I don't. In fact, I don't think this even covers the angel, never mind the hellhound. And don't even get me started on what it'll take before I forget you chose the Winchesters over lovable old me."

Against her better judgment, Meg asked, "What will it take?"

"Hmm. I'll have to think about it. Why don't you worry about paying for my angel and my loyal pup first?"

"And what's the payment for them?"

"Let's meet in Houston tomorrow to discuss it. And wear something respectable and without so many spots."

Before Meg could respond, Crowley vanished from the rock. She waited a few seconds to make sure he wasn't coming back before she collapsed to the ground.

If Crowley had considered that a _quick_ shag, she was going to need a meat-suit with some serious stamina.

The End


	2. Texas

Thanks to the encouragement I received, and a recent episode of _Supernatural_ that I will not discuss so as to avoid spoilers but that gave me serious Meg-feels, I've decided to make this a two-shot.

* * *

Some girls could try on clothes for hours, cover their floor in discarded outfits, and still be dissatisfied at the end of the whole ordeal. For Meg, the problem extended far beyond clothes. Before she ever had to think about _what_ to wear, she needed to decide on _whom_ to wear.

And in a state as big and diverse as Texas, that meant an awful lot of bodies to choose from.

Meg stared at herself—or the meat-suit she was wearing—in the mirror of a dingy truck-stop bathroom. This body wasn't so bad, just as long as Meg didn't mind going back to Hell and resuming an eternity of torture. Otherwise, the body quite frankly sucked. She needed to find and possess someone who owned more than skin-tight pink booty shorts, and she wasn't going to find that someone hanging out at a rest-stop on Interstate 10.

Disgusted, Meg punched the mirror, shattering the tanned-to-herpes-jerky reflection. She stomped out of the restroom and reentered the baking desert heat. Squinting against the sun, Meg surveyed the plaza and looked for a ride west, into Houston. Even if the body she inhabited was entirely unfit for the King of Hell, it would do when it came to attracting lonely truckers.

Five minutes and a little eyelash-batting later, Meg was seated in an air-conditioned cab with the first female trucker she'd ever met.

"Thanks for the ride," Meg said.

"I figured I'd better, if I didn't want to read about you in the obituaries," the trucker replied.

Meg snorted. "I can take care of myself. I know every girl that says that gets killed by some psychopath in the next scene, but I'm not every girl."

"Gonna stab 'em with your stiletto heels?"

"Only if I was in a bad mood. I'd probably just break their necks or drop them off a bridge."

The trucker laughed. "I guess you can take care of yourself. Is that why you're going to Houston, to prove how independent you are?"

"Nope, just the opposite. To prove how loyal I am to a man."

"Husband, boyfriend? You mind me asking?"

"Ask away. And he's neither of those things. He couldn't get any further from those things if he was on one side of the universe and they were on the other. I just have sex with him on deserted country roads," Meg said.

The trucker's eyebrows shot up. "Must be pretty good sex, to get you hitchhiking to see him."

"That is _not_ okay to ask about. He may kiss and tell—son of a bitch, does he ever—but I've got class. My father taught me better. …But it was pretty good. Not that I'd tell him that. If he ever asked, I'd say it was horrible and I faked everything."

Two hours and much commiserating later, Meg and the truck driver parted ways at a gas station in Houston. Meg sauntered into the gas station's minimart and found it deserted except for the cashier. Meg sized up the cashier and decided Crowley would probably be happier if she came to him wearing a dog.

Meg didn't know how many people lived in Houston, but somewhere out there was a suitable meat-suit. She just had to find it. And she wasn't going to find it by staring at the slushy machine in a crappy minimart. Meg broke her eyes away from the spinning drums of blue and red flavored ice and continued her quest.

It was almost three in the afternoon, and people would soon start flooding out of downtown skyscrapers and office buildings. Meg decided that would be the most logical place to start looking for a better body, and also the most logical place to find Crowley. The King of Hell didn't show up personally to make deals with small businesses. If Crowley was here, he'd be kissing up some energy giant's vice president. Meg just hoped she found a new look before she found Crowley.

Meg's current body wore shorts too tight to admit pockets, but that didn't mean she had no place to put her money. Her bra served as her wallet, and contained both a driver's license and thirty-two dollars. Meg withdrew enough money for bus fare and hopped aboard glorious public transport for the journey downtown.

The bus, like the gas station, failed to provide a meat-suit and Meg hopped off still wearing the truck stop hooker. She was beginning to feel dirty and diseased.

Now that she was in the right area, Meg began to actively seek a new meat-suit. She wasn't sure exactly what she was looking her—only that, as per Crowley's request, it not be covered in spots of any kind—but she'd know it when she saw it.

As Meg wandered around, the first trickle of freed office workers joined her on the sidewalk. Some of them openly stared at her and her scandalous outfit, and more than one person crossed the street to avoid her. Meg scoffed. If these people would run from a perfectly normal prostitute, she could only imagine how fast they'd scatter if she showed them her black eyes. Maybe just once… No, she was here to make Crowley happy, and she wasn't going to blow her chances of keeping on his good side just to screw around with a bunch of uptight drones.

Meg kept her demonic tendencies in check and surveyed the growing rush-hour throng that walked with her. She rejected meat-suit after meat-suit for a variety of reasons. One caught her eye—a tall woman who screamed dominatrix even in a conservative business suit—but before Meg could approach the woman, she got into a car parked at a meter.

"Come on!" Meg growled. There had to be some person in this town who didn't look cheap, weak, generic, or like a wannabe cowboy or hipster.

Meg waded through the tide of collared shirts and monochromatic ties, looking for anything that stuck out. Finally she found it. And as a bonus, her chosen target presented the opportunity for all kinds of bondage games. Crowley would be _thrilled_.

Like a lion, Meg stalked her prey. Then, very much unlike the lion, she threw herself against the window of her prey's patrol car and began to sob hysterically.

The window rolled down a crack, and judging by the way the car's occupant moved his hand to his belt, he suspected he was about to need his pepper-spray. Meg stopped pawing at the window and collapsed in a heap on the sidewalk. Her short shorts rode up even higher and probably could have earned her an indecent exposure citation.

"Ma'am, do you need help?" the cop asked from inside the safety of his squad car.

"Yes!" Meg bawled. "My boyfriend's OD'ing or something!"

"Okay, calm down. It'll be alright. Where is he?" Exactly as Meg had predicted, the cop's instinct to protect and serve kicked on and his revulsion and fear at the howling hooker were no match for his desire to do good.

The cop radioed for an ambulance and then opened the door and stepped out. Meg, her mascara running down her face in rivulets, grabbed him by the hand and yanked him. The crowd that had gathered to watch the spectacle parted to allow Meg and the cop passage. Once Meg and the cop were sprinting down the sidewalk, most of the crowd milled on its way, though a few stuck around to gossip and decry the sorry state of today's misled youth.

Meg needed somewhere quiet where half of Texas wouldn't see her smoke out of her current body, and she needed it before the cop became suspicious of her story. The area was far too nice to have trash-strewn alleys or flophouses, but the bathroom of a coffeehouse might be dingy enough. Meg pulled the cop through the doors of the nearest Starbucks and then guided him into the men's bathroom, which was mercifully empty of witnesses.

"Where's your boyfriend?" the cop asked, surveying the empty stalls.

Meg waited for the bathroom door to swing shut entirely before throwing back her head. The cop leapt away and stared with wide thunderstruck eyes as a black cloud billowed from the woman's mouth. Before he could bolt for the door, the malevolent cloud forced itself down his throat.

Meg's former meat-suit collapsed in a boneless heap. Its original owner was still alive, just traumatized into a catatonic state. It was probably only temporary. Probably. Either way, Meg was done with the not-so-happy hooker.

But Officer Friendly on the other hand, Meg really wanted to get to know him. She looked at herself in the mirror above the sink, and knew she'd chosen wisely. This meat-suit was perfect: authoritarian, handsome, and he had a gun. And handcuffs. And a Taser! Meg could imagine the fun she and Crowley would get up to with all the cop's gadgets.

Crowley.

Meg stopped daydreaming about BDSM and faced reality. She still had no idea where Crowley was, and Houston wasn't exactly a ghost town. If she didn't find him before he pranced off to Hell, he'd no doubt blame her for never showing up, and then back into the deep fryer she'd go.

"The little weasel," Meg muttered. She'd find him, alright. And when she did, she was going to…do everything in her power to please him.

God, her life was in shambles.

Stepping over her former meat-suit, which was now stirring and moaning, Meg exited the bathroom. Two customers and a barista who had seen her run in a few minutes ago now watched her either blatantly, in the case of the barista, or covertly, in the case of the customers: one of them peeked over her newspaper, and the other pretended to be typing the next great American novel, though his fingers were obviously hitting the same key over and over again.

Meg managed what she hoped was an embarrassed, awkward laugh. "Uh, for future reference, a blocked toilet is not a police emergency. Not even if you had bad Tex-Mex and are suffering the consequences."

The barista snorted and the novelist chuckled. The newspaper reader muttered, "Ew, way too much information," and returned to the Business section.

Satisfied that everyone's suspicions had been alleviated—and hoping the threat of explosive gastrointestinal distress would keep them out of the bathroom for a while—Meg hurried out the door. She made it nearly to the end of the block before a ridiculous thought struck her. She almost ignored it, _almost_ being the imperative word, but ended up bowing to the impulse.

Hardly able to believe what she was doing, Meg turned around and reentered the coffeehouse. The patronage and barista on duty hadn't changed in the three minutes she'd been gone, and again all sets of eyes turned to look at her. This time the woman with the newspaper didn't even bother raising her shield.

"This is going to sound really weird, but if you wanted to find a demon somewhere in this city, where would you look?" Meg asked.

The replies were instantaneous and unanimous. "Halliburton."

"Thanks." As Meg ran back outside, she smacked herself in the forehead. Talk about missing the obvious.

One of the great advantages to wearing a cop—besides the utility belt that was second only to Batman's—was the sweet wheels. Meg got behind the wheel of the ill-gotten vehicle and did a quick rundown of all the accessories by accessing the meat-suit's memories. As though she'd known how to do it her whole life, Meg picked up the radio and, again using the sheepish laugh she'd utilized earlier to disarming effect, told dispatch to cancel the ambulance. Bad burritos had struck again.

Once that little nuisance was taken care of, Meg again probed her meat-suit's memories. That was another convenient thing about cops: they had the proverbial memories of elephants. Officer Friendly had an excellent map of Houston in his head from years of street patrols, and knew exactly where Halliburton's offices were. Apparently, in the Bush years, Officer Friendly had, on more than once occasion, been called to remove protesters from the premises.

With her destination plugged into her organic GPS, Meg buckled her seatbelt—she had to set a good example for the citizenry—and shifted the car into drive. The swelling rush-hour traffic wasn't eager to let her join the stream, so she did what everyone riding in a police car fantasized about: she activated the sirens and light bar, and peeled out.

The sirens and lights cleared a path as effectively as a snowplow, and Meg, for the first time in a very long time, felt powerful. She was in charge, she had a badge and a badass ride, and people got out of her way. Sure, the body and the badge and the car were all borrowed, but the rush was hers and hers alone.

A few blocks from her destination, Meg killed the light-and-sound show. She wanted to surprise Crowley, and blaring her presence at a hundred decibels wasn't going to leave much room for ambush.

Meg slowed down and surveyed the office building. It didn't exactly look like an evil lair, though the most evil of evil lairs rarely did. Crowley's office, for instance, had inviting mahogany furniture and not a thumb-screw or motivational cat poster to be seen.

Meg completed her reconnaissance and parked within sight of the building's main entrance, but far enough away not to be immediately spotted. Then she settled in for a stake-out.

She waited.

And she waited.

And she played with her handcuffs.

And she found Officer Friendly's spiral-bound notepad, usually used for taking witness statements and documenting crimes. And she played hangman with herself and won. And she drew some ultra-violent doodles, many of which involved some combination of herself, Crowley, the Winchesters, and Castiel. One particularly naughty doodle involved all five of them together. Meg tore this one out, folded it, and placed it in her breast pocket for safekeeping.

People filed out of the building in starts and stops. Many of them were in suits, but none of them was Crowley. Meg groaned in frustration as a pudgy white male walked out. He might have passed for Crowley…if not for Stetson hat.

Two hours trickled by. The building emptied of all its regular diurnal employees, and as day faded into evening, even the cleaning crew cleared out. Only a few office windows stayed lit, and it was in those lights that Meg placed all her hope.

By the time the clocks struck nine, Officer Friendly—known to every government entity, family member, friend, and coworker as Alvaro Constantino—was missed both at home and at work. His shift should have ended hours ago, and he was getting increasingly urgent calls from dispatch, asking him to at least report his current location. Meg, already pissed off, wasn't in the mood for any more noise. She glared at the radio and it erupted in a shower of sparks.

In the afterglow of the murdered radio, Meg spied a lone figure strolling through the front doors of the office building. She squinted and her heart kicked.

Freaking finally!

She had to act quickly. Crowley could disappear at any moment. Or he could saunter around downtown, savor the night air, and find himself an orphan to kick or a transvestite to pick up. Meg had no idea what Crowley's plans were, as the devious bastard hadn't been nice enough to let her in on any of them.

Meg exited the car and headed towards Crowley at a trot. She was careful to avoid his line of sight, and snuck up from behind. She had a notion her meat-suit had done this sort of stalking before, as the body moved easily and silently. When she was within twenty feet, she transferred the handcuffs from her belt to her hands. Once the cuffs were positioned correctly, Meg prepared to sprint the final distance and have Crowley manacled before he even realized he'd been followed.

"I know you're there, darling, and whatever it is you're planning, you'd better reconsider."

That stopped Meg in her tracks as effectively as a concrete barrier.

"The only reason you aren't already a smoldering pile of offal is that I am in an _excellent_ mood. So don't ruin it."

Meg swallowed hard and weighed her choices. Maybe it would be smartest to reveal her hand. She didn't want to be a smoldering pile of offal, after all.

"You're under arrest!" Meg blurted out instead.

Now it was Crowley's turn to stop. He paused for a few seconds, and then turned around. He appraised the cop and cocked an eyebrow.

"Am I now? On what charges?"

"Murder, torture, arson, kidnapping, vandalism, slander—"

"It's only slander if it's untrue," Crowley interrupted. "And everything I said about your father—except maybe the furry bit, but I haven't given up hope—is true."

Meg's shoulders sunk. "You knew it was me?"

"Of course. Though," Crowley ran his eyes up and down Meg's meat-suit, "I like what I see. You have something approaching taste after all."

Meg tried not to look too relieved. "I hoped you'd like it. Its name is Alvaro."

Crowley smirked. "Exotic. Not exactly Castiel but much better than, say, Meg."

"Or Fergus," Meg muttered.

"And, of course, nowhere near as exotic as the names your father liked to be called when he and I—"

"Don't tell me about that! I'm sorry!"

Crowley's self-satisfied smile grew like the Grinch's heart. "You've got quite a lot to be sorry for, haven't you?"

Meg knew this was coming; it was why she was here, after all. To make penance. "Yes."

"And what is it you owe me for again? Hmm? One dead hellhound, one sullied angel, and one betrayal. My, my, that's quite the tab."

"I know. But I'm here, just like you wanted. So can we get on with it? What do I have to do before you forgive me?"

"Oh, I still haven't decided. Meet me in Saint Louis on Sunday and I'm sure I'll have made up my mind."

Meg's mouth fell open. Then a whole bunch of curse words tumbled from it. "You leprechaun bastard! I spent all day hitchhiking, wearing hookers, and pretending people had diarrhea! I am not chasing you around the country!"

"What choice do you have?" Crowley asked.

Later, she would chalk it up to her meat-suit's training. At the moment it happened, though, there was no room for thought. Meg pulled the Taser from her belt, aimed it at Crowley, and zapped the King of Hell with 50,000 volts.

Which hardly made him twitch. Apparently electric attacks weren't very effective against Crowley. Nonchalantly, as though brushing away a speck, Crowley swept the Taser's twin electrodes from his chest.

"Make that a dead hellhound, a sullied angel, a betrayal, and police brutality."

Meg threw the Taser to the ground. "I'll show you police brutality."

"Mm, if that's a promise, that might be enough to pay for the angel."

Meg pulled out the handcuffs again.

"And maybe, just maybe, for my pup as well."

* * *

The End

Though I would not be adverse to a third chapter.

Also, if any reader happens to be from Houston, I hope I was vague enough with geography...


	3. Frozen Wastelands

I proudly present the next chapter!

And a mighty thanks to those who have reviewed, followed, or favorited.

* * *

It was the best view in all of St. Louis, and Crowley had to share it with Meg. He looked over at her again and shuddered. Meg was so hideous she could have spoilt a view of heaven, even a view that included all the angels kneeling and Naomi her bitchy self crowning Crowley the new boss.

"If you don't like it, just say so," Meg ground out.

"Are my tremors of revulsion not enough for you? Fine, I abhor it. I have no idea where you found it, what it's supposed to be, or why its hair is that color, but it sickens me. I run hell, the realm of eternal torture and damnation, and it still sickens me!" Crowley exclaimed.

Crowley then pushed Meg off the top of the Gateway Arch. He peered over the edge and watched as she fell. Not caring if she heard or not, Crowley shouted at the plummeting body, "I'll be in Detroit on Wednesday. Ta-ta."

Meg had time to give Crowley the finger before her meat-suit met the ground and exploded like a fleshy hand grenade. She did not wait around to watch paramedics mop up the woman—at least, she _thought_ it was a woman—she'd been wearing. Meg hijacked the first person that came over to investigate the falling body—a 46-year-old male tourist visiting from Canada—and beat a hasty retreat.

The misplaced Canuck almost made it home. Meg dumped him a few miles from the border, when she traded him and his quirky accent in for a finely-muscled autoworker. A finely-muscled autoworker who, up and down his arms, had the most asinine and ugly tattoos known to man. Meg almost smoked out of him the moment she saw the butchered Detroit Tigers logo.

After the fiasco in St. Louis, Meg wasn't going to appear before Crowley in any meat-suit bearing lower-than-prison-quality ink. If she had to poke in every abandoned factory and dilapidated house, she would find someone in Motor City presentable enough for the King.

Forced to wear the hideous human canvas until something better came along, Meg barely controlled the urge to run screaming through the destitute city. She contained herself and settled for prowling down the cracked sidewalk, her eyes looking every which way. To an outside viewer, she probably, with her restless watching, looked like a drug addict in need of a fix or a paranoiac. Not really the kind of person people let get close to them.

Though there were a few places where addicts and the mentally ill wouldn't be turned away or beaten senseless, at least not so long as they behaved and didn't talk to themselves too loudly. And one of those places happened to be a church. As luck would have it, Meg was presently approaching such a house of worship.

There was no way Crowley would pass up the chance to screw a priest. Or minister. Or reverend. Or whatever the hell this denomination called its man at the pulpit.

Meg entered the small church, which looked like it had been converted from an auto repair garage or other failed business. The place was poorly lit, but it was clean. Spartan might have been the best word for it.

Meg walked soundlessly up the aisle of empty pews and headed towards the altar. The only living soul, besides the one imprisoned deep within the meat-suit Meg wore, was a young black man with his back turned to Meg. He was dressed in dark trousers and a long-sleeved work shirt, but despite the lack of robes or accoutrements, Meg suspected he was the man she wanted to talk to.

"Excuse me," Meg said.

The man turned around and grinned. It was, Meg realized, a very personal grin, the grin one would give a good friend, not a total stranger.

"Robby, hey man! You get that raise? I was praying for you!"

"Great, he knows my name," Meg muttered.

"Oh, judging by the look on your face, I'm guessing no. I'm sorry, brother. Want to talk about it?" the minister asked.

"I've got bigger problems," Meg replied. "Much, much bigger problems."

Meg's eyes flashed black and the minister stepped back. Before he could run, Meg smoked out of Robby the tattooed nightmare and flung her smoky form at the minister. She enveloped him like a toxic cloud and…

Nothing.

She couldn't force herself into him.

Meg had no choice but to retreat back into Robby. As she rose, again wearing the poorly decorated meat-suit, Meg glared at the minister. He smirked and pulled up his sleeve, revealing what Meg already expected.

Anti-possession tattoo. Just perfect.

"You picked the wrong house of God to mess with," the minister said.

Meg snorted. So she couldn't possess the minister. That didn't mean she couldn't beat him to death with a pew or papier-mâché statue of Saint Cross-Eyes or a—

The minister reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a flask. Meg knew it didn't contain whiskey. She snarled, pivoted, and broke for the door. The minister, tenacious son of a bitch, gave chase.

In her glory days, back when Azazel was king and Crowley was a two-bit lackey buying souls in exchange for petty miracles, Meg could have annihilated the minister with a snap of her fingers. Now, thanks to Crowley, her powers were a shadow of what they used to be. And that included healing powers. If she was splashed with holy water, she'd walk around in agony and looking like Freddy Krueger for hours. And pain and disfigurement were not going to improve her mood.

Robby the autoworker was fast, and Meg, by leaping a lopsided fence and cutting across a pitbull-infested yard, soon distanced herself from the minister. Not that she dared slow down. Meg continued running until she was more than a mile from the church.

After taking a quick look behind her to make sure the minister hadn't somehow caught up with her, Meg hurried off the sidewalk and up the stairs of an abandoned house. A peeling and faded notice from the city of Detroit announced the property was condemned and trespassers would be prosecuted.

Meg kicked the door open.

The house looked like it had been used to shelter a healthy population of hobos, arsonists, junkies, and chimpanzees. Meg covered her nose as she plodded through the mess. There were corners of hell that were cleaner and smelled better. Especially now, since Crowley had replaced most of the torture chambers with the much-more-economical eternal line to nowhere.

"This is exactly the sort of place I'd expect to find you."

Meg whirled around and saw Crowley standing at the front door. She considered leaping out the window and running away to Canada. She'd rather be eaten by a moose in the Great White North than let Crowley see the artwork her current meat-suit sported.

"I— Today is Tuesday," Meg said.

"So it is," Crowley replied. "Glad to know you've learned to read a calendar. Daddy's proud."

"You told me Wednesday. I should have another day."

"Don't blame me. I wasn't the poor, sad bastard who defrauded the United States government and needed to push up the meeting because he's going to prison tomorrow. I was the even poorer, sadder bastard who had to listen to that poor, sad bastard blubber about his woes for twenty minutes, and then kiss the miserable sod. His soul wasn't remotely worth it," Crowley said.

"I was chased by a priest. I think my problems are worse," Meg said.

"Maybe, but I don't care about your problems. They're not important to me. I care about getting the taste of spineless CEO out of my mouth. And something tells me I won't like what you're wearing any better."

Meg crossed her arms, unintentionally causing her sleeves to ride up and reveal the terrible secrets beneath them. Crowley, curious, stepped into the house. Meg hastily uncrossed her arms and pulled her sleeves down.

"What was that?" Crowley asked.

"Disfiguring scars," Meg responded.

"Disfiguring, yes. Scars, no. Let me see."

"No."

"I'm the bloody King of Hell, you can't tell me no."

"I think I just did, Lucky."

"Oh, well, in that case, what can I do? I'm helpless. No, wait, I'm not. I can do this." Crowley snapped his fingers and Meg's clothes disappeared. Poof. Gone. Not a stitch remaining, shoes and socks included.

Naked as the day she was born, Meg covered her shame—the defiling tattoos—best she could. Only she had nowhere near enough hands. Kali wouldn't have had enough hands to do the job.

Crowley approached and squinted. "What are they even supposed to be?"

"I have no idea! Can I have my clothes back now?" Meg demanded.

"Not until I have pictures." Crowley pulled out his cell phone and began fiddling with it.

"You are not taking souvenir photos of this!"

"Either I get my pictures, or you go back on the rack. Then I'll take pictures anyway. And send them to your little angel."

Meg groaned and lowered her hands, exposing the worst of the ink. Crowley merrily went at it, snapping pictures until his evil little heart was content.

As he scrolled through the gallery of Detroit's worst drunken ideas, Crowley said, "Tomorrow I'm buying the souls of sculpted male models in Miami. You aren't invited to that. But if you can find something to wear that wasn't scribbled on by toddlers, you can try to win my favor in Juneau on Sunday."

"Juneau, Alaska?" Meg asked, shuddering at the thought of how cold it would be.

"Yes, Juneau, Alaska, not Juno of the hamburger phone. It seems like a certain politician is afraid of fading from the spotlight."

Meg gagged. "You're honestly going to kiss _her_?"

"Of course not. _You're_ going to kiss her."

"I hope you get castrated by a bear trap."

"Just for that remark, you're not getting your clothes back. Enjoy your naked stay in the ghetto."

Moldy newspaper made a very poor substitution for cotton.

* * *

Alaska was every bit as horrible as Meg expected. No, scratch that, it was worse. For one thing, Crowley wasn't castrated by an errant bear trap. Or by a hungry Kodiak. Or by anything. In fact, the King of Hell seemed to enjoy himself immensely. Maybe it was his Scottish constitution, but not even the damp and cold could bring him down. He couldn't keep the devious smile off his face.

"I'm going to have this framed," Crowley announced, sticking his cell phone in Meg's face. Cross-eyed, she glanced at the photo.

"Why don't you just sell it to the highest bidder?" Meg asked. "I'm sure the former governor partaking in girl-on-girl action would be worth a few dozen souls to the right news organization."

Crowley looked scandalized. "I have a reputation to uphold. If people suspected their crossroad deals would grace the _Huffington Post_, how could I make a living?"

"Oh, so selling pictures crosses the line. But whoring me out, taking pictures of it, and then decorating your office with the pictures, that's fine?" Meg said.

"Exactly."

"You are a despicable little hobbit."

"Then I suppose I better run back to my hobbit hole. But wait, what's this? Meg's return ticket and one way out of this intellectual wasteland? Wouldn't it be a shame if I forgot to give her this before I—" Crowley snapped his fingers and disappeared before Meg could grab him.

"You son of a bitch! And an angel! And an iguana!" Meg kicked empty air where the King had just been standing.

Meg allowed herself a few minutes of blinding, righteous fury—and the swearing, flashing black eyes, and inhuman snarling that went along with it—before she reined herself in. No matter how mad she was, having a conniption fit in the middle of nowhere wasn't the answer. She needed to rejoin civilization, find a meat-suit that had a bit of cash, and get on the first flight back to warmer climes.

If only civilization wasn't a ten-mile hike through bear, moose, and crazy meth-head country. Meg growled under her breath. She should have known better to rely on Crowley; sure, he had no problem picking her up from the airport, but teleporting her back, no, it was so much more fun to watch her pick up a raging case of toe blisters.

At least her meat-suit was wearing a decent pair of walking shoes.

* * *

Seven hours later, Meg was wearing a crab fisherman who'd had a particularly good season, even if the Discovery Channel hadn't invited him to be on _Deadliest Catch_. He had more than enough cash to fly Meg out of Juneau International in first class, and to have her back in the lower 48 by the time the sun rose.

Meg wasn't content on just returning to any old part of America that didn't live in perpetual twilight for months at a time. She had a destination in mind, a person there she had to meet, and then a conspiracy to set into motion.

And in all of America, there was no better place for clandestine operations than Washington DC.

* * *

AN:

At this point I guess it's obvious this fic will officially become ongoing.


	4. The Tables Are Turned

Here's the next installment. Hope you enjoy it.

Thanks for the reviews.

* * *

Considering how bad things had looked for him a week ago, this was the next best thing to having a time machine. He couldn't undo the errors in judgment he'd made, but he could undo all indications said errors had ever occurred.

The Congressman sighed and kicked off his shoes. He'd had a very successful day. The intern that was supposed to testify against him had been found hanging in a closet. Naked. With some very illegal pornography scattered around his gently swaying feet. The security camera footage that (allegedly) showed him entering a seedy motel with a hooker on his arm had, when played, turned out to be someone's audition tape for _The Real World_. And funds that had been (again, allegedly) misappropriated were back exactly where they belonged, with not so much as an errant penny to bring the IRS sniffing.

His soul had been well worth it. Heck, he was impressed with how good a job that Crowley fellow had done. No detail had been overlooked, and that simpering son of a bitch intern had gotten exactly what he deserved.

This called for a drink.

The Congressman walked over to the minibar, selected his favorite brew, and returned to his bed.

Or tried to. A bellhop was standing between him and downy comfort.

"What are you doing in here? I didn't call the front desk for anything," the Congressman said.

"_No hablo ingles_," the bellhop replied.

The Congressman gaped. What the hell was this? Somebody had invaded his privacy, and he couldn't even tell the guy to leave thanks to the language barrier! What kind of people was this hotel hiring? The kind that Immigration would be escorting out of the country, that's what kind.

"Go. Leave. Uh, _vaya_, yeah, that's it! _Vaya_!" The Congressman pointed at the door. "Adios, amigo."

The bellhop grinned. "Sorry, I was messing with you. I speak perfect English, and so does he, actually."

"Great. Wait, who's 'he'?" The Congressman looked around wildly for any friends the bellhop might have invited in.

"He, as in the meat-suit." The bellhop motioned to his body. "The guy I'm possessing."

"Possessing?"

The bellhop's eyes flashed black and the Congressman opened his mouth to scream. Before he could produce a sound, he found himself thrown backwards and pinned to the wall. When he tried to move, it felt like he was held there by an invisible hand. He struggled valiantly to escape from the wall but was as trapped as a fly in a web.

"I'm a demon. Like the one you sold your soul to. Only not such a whiny bitch."

"But- What- How do you know about that?" the Congressman demanded.

"Oh, I was there. The chick in the tube-top with the freckle explosion? Me!"

The Congressman tilted his head, as though looking at the young Hispanic bellhop from a different angle would turn him into a freckled female.

Meg sighed. "I guess nobody ever explained the finer points of demonic possession to you. Come over here and let Mama teach you."

Meg walked over to the bed, sat down, and patted the spot next to her. The moment she did, her hold on the Congressman released and he stumbled away from the wall. Instead of obediently walking over to the bed, he ran for the phone.

For a man his age, the Congressman could move. He had nearly made it to the phone when Meg tackled him to the floor. Another psychic hold would have required less effort, but some people just asked to be leapt on.

"Let me explain what happens if the police, Secret Service, or Men in Black show up here: chunks of police, Secret Service, or Men in Black end up clogging the pipes and painting the ceiling. And they never find chunks of you, Mr. Representative," Meg said. "Understand?"

The Congressman nodded frantically and Meg removed her elbow from his back. "Okay, let's try that one more time."

Now moving more like a man his age, the Congressman got to his knees and, using the bed for support, managed to stand. He then stiffly sat on the bed, his back to Meg.

"Good enough, grandpa. Now what were we talking about? Right, demonic possession. It works like this: demons don't have physical bodies of their own. Outside of hell, we're smoke. We can bowl into things, but there is no room for finesse. If we want to touch something, hold a conversation, sit down and chillax, we need bodies. So we take them. _Possess_ them. Basically anyone we want. I wanted this bellhop, so I shoved my smoky essence down his throat, and now I'm riding him. I'm in total control. He's in here, alive, screaming and all that fun stuff, but I'm the boss of the body," Meg explained.

"Is that why you're here? To possess me?" the Congressman asked.

Meg snorted. "Only if you were the last meat-suit on Earth. Oh, that's what we usually call the bodies we wear. Meat-suits. Though I did once hear a demon call his body 'carne Armani'. For a demon, that's pretty creative."

"Then what do you want? To blackmail me?"

"Oh, damn, that's it. I was hoping we could play a little longer. But you hit the nail on the head."

"You're a demon! You're from hell! How are you supposed to blackmail me? Who's going to believe anything you say?"

Meg sighed. "Okay, maybe 'blackmail' isn't the best word. Maybe threaten is better. As in, threaten to kill you and send you down to hell ten years early, but before I kill you, force you to confess to every crime you escaped from today."

The Congressman swayed like a palm tree in a hurricane and then collapsed backwards on the bed. Meg looked at him and shook her head. She sauntered across the room to the kitchenette, where she picked up a plastic drinking cup and filled it with cold water. Meg returned to the bed and upended the cup, pouring its icy contents onto the Congressman's head. He woke with a sputter and a yelp.

"I kinda need you awake for this," Meg said.

The Congressman wiped water from his face. "For what? Tell me why you're here and what you want, damn it!"

"I need you to call Crowley."

"No! I never want to see him again! Don't get me wrong, I'm thankful I'm not on my way to prison for the rest of my natural life, but…he's queer."

"And kissing him reawakened long-buried feelings?" Meg asked.

"God damn you, no!"

Meg laughed. "I'm joking. It's pretty obvious power is your big turn-on. And, for the record, Crowley's not 'queer'. He's an equal-opportunity offender. He just loves messing with people like you. That's one of the reasons I needed you, and not some chick he made a deal with last year. He's more likely to show up, if only so he can needle you."

"All the more reason to never see him again," the Congressman groused.

"How about this then? I can pick you up and hurl you out that window, and while it may not seem like it, twenty seconds in freefall is really a long time to think."

Meg got off the bed and walked over to the window. She opened it and the sounds of the city flooded in. The Congressman felt his throat constricting.

"It's a long way down. You'd make a mess," Meg said. "And don't forget than confession I mentioned earlier. You don't want the authorities to break in here and discover your suicide note painted on the walls."

The Congressman slowly shook his head. No, he most certainly didn't want any part of that.

"So what'll it be? Willing to make one little collect call for me, or do you want to make some EMTs throw up?"

"Okay, I'll call him. But don't think for one second I won't sell you out! This is all your idea and I'll make sure he knows it!" the Congressman said.

"I wouldn't expect anything else from you. Now let's get you to a crossroads."

"Do I have time to change my shirt?" The Congressman motioned to his wet clothes.

"Nope."

"But—"

"Would you rather meet Crowley without any shirt, or with a wet one?"

The Congressman shut his mouth.

An hour later, Meg and her grumpy passenger disembarked from the SUV Meg had "borrowed" earlier in the day. She had chosen to drive far from the city to a deserted country road that was so ill-used weeds had almost erased its existence. Meg kicked down the goldenrod until she had exposed a section of earth. Once the ground was clear, she motioned for the Congressman to join her.

"How do I do this?" the Congressman asked, surveying the crop circle Meg had created.

"Just like the first time. Bury this." From her meat-suit's various pockets, Meg withdrew an assortment of objects, from stringy herbs to a bit of bone, and a small box to hold them all. She crammed the objects into the box, tucked the box under her arm, and then held out her empty hand to the Congressman. He stared at it like it was a tentacle.

"What? You want me to hold your hand?" the Congressman asked.

"No. I want some photo ID," Meg replied.

"Why?"

"So I can steal your identity and buy some sweet shorts on your credit. Because you need a photo of yourself to summon a crossroads demon, stupid! How did you manage this by yourself?"

The Congressman reached into his pants-pocket and removed his wallet. He had a driver's license, but didn't want to use that and have to tangle with the DMV to get a new one. Even for a high-ranking elected official, the wheels of the DMV turned slowly, and with much tortured squealing. And anyway, the first time he'd summoned Crowley, he'd just used a photo from a recent speech he'd given. He wasn't lucky enough to have a throw-away shot this time, but he did have a few family photographs.

Of the pictures in his wallet, the most recent to feature him was from Christmas. The Congressman carefully tore his wife out of the snapshot and then handed only his own image to Meg. She happily folded the picture in half and then jammed it into the box. Once the demon-summoning box was complete, Meg handed it all over to the Congressman.

"You have to do this part yourself," Meg said.

The Congressman knelt down and excavated a hole big enough to accept the box. Once the box was in the hole, the Congressman pulled the dirt back over, making a little mound. He patted the mound and stood up.

"There. Now what do you…" the Congressman trailed off. The demon who'd dragged him deep into the boondocks was nowhere to be seen.

The Congressman turned in a circle and found himself alone. The SUV was still parked there, so the demon hadn't driven off in it. But maybe it didn't have to. Demons had to have all kinds of evil powers, and disappearing into thin air might be one of them. The Congressman tried to remember if he'd ever, anywhere, even in a book or on a crappy straight-to-DVD, seen anything about demons and their abilities. All he could come up with was Jesus turning a demon into a pig. And he hadn't heard any oinking.

Whether the demon had turned into a pig and high-tailed it, or had run off in that Mexican it was wearing, there was no point standing around, waiting for Crowley to show up and…molest him again. The first time around Crowley had taken his sweet time to show up, and the Congressman, as he hustled to the SUV, prayed the demon deal-maker was just as lazy this time around.

The driver's side door of the SUV was open, and the Congressman dove inside. He slammed the door and locked it, and then fumbled for the keys. Which, of course, were not in the ignition. The Congressman gulped. Though he knew he wouldn't be so lucky, he flipped down the visor, checked under the seat, and looked in the glove box. No keys, just as he expected.

Since he'd failed to locate the keys, the Congressman had a decision to make. Did he remain in the SUV, maybe duck down or hide in the back, or did he try to run? Or, since he was a senior citizen, make that jog lightly before his aching knees forced him to limp.

While the Congressman tried to decide whether he wanted to die in a stranger's SUV, or out in the middle of nowhere, where the local wildlife would pick his bones clean before anyone found him, there was a light knock at the window. The Congressman went rigid and white as a freshly bleached sheet at a Klansman's house. He turned his head and found Crowley smiling at him. The demon waved.

"Come to thank me for a job well done?" Crowley asked. "You could have just sent muffins."

"The Mexican demon made me do it!" the Congressman screamed.

Crowley's eyebrows rose. "Is that a more racist version of 'the devil made me do it'?"

"No, maybe, I don't know! But an hour ago I was at my hotel, preparing to celebrate, and then there was this bellhop and he kidnapped me! And then he drove me out here, and now he's gone! It's all his fault! I never wanted to see you again!"

Crowley's perky grin turned into a wounded frown. "Never again? After all I did for you?"

The Congressman thought fast. "That isn't what I meant. I am thankful, you saved my life and my career, but I was just kidnapped by a demon and I am understandably upset."

"Tell me more about this demon." Crowley said.

"He was a bellhop. No, he was wearing the bellhop, that's what he said. It was a meat-suit. And he said he knew I sold my soul to you, because he was there, watching. But he was a girl back then," the Congressman said. Then he put a hand to his head. "I don't understand you demons. Have you ever been a girl?"

Instead of replying, Crowley frowned. He knew exactly who had kidnapped the Congressman, and the surface reason was obvious: to get Crowley topside. But beyond that, Crowley couldn't glean why Meg would risk pissing off the King of Hell with her shenanigans.

"Where is she? He. Whatever," Crowley said.

"I don't know. He made me bury the box, and when I stood back up, he was gone. Oh."

"Oh? Oh what? If you've had an epiphany, please share it with the class."

"He's right behind you."

Crowley whirled around and came face-to-face with Meg and her new meat-suit. Before he could say a word, Meg seized his wrists and snapped a pair of ancient-looking manacles on them.

Crowley looked down at his bonds. "We've already played this game, and with nicer jewelry."

Meg shook her head, but couldn't shake the smile off her face. "Not like this, we didn't."

Crowley jerked his arms, intending to snap the handcuffs as though they were made of spun sugar. When the metal did not break, he tried harder, putting more muscle into his efforts. When that didn't work, Crowley's poise slipped just a little. He glared down at the cuffs, his eyes flashed red, and a spark of blue flame like a will o' wisp appeared on the heavy chain that connected the two cuffs. The flame burned and spat like thermite, and Crowley allowed the reaction to continue for a full minute before he extinguished the fire.

Once more the King of Hell tried to escape the cuffs. Despite the sixty seconds of intense heat that should have melted the iron, the chain between the cuffs remained completely intact no matter how hard Crowley pulled.

His rage tangible in his voice, Crowley growled, "Take. Them. Off."

"I have a better idea. Why don't you meet me in, I don't know, Philadelphia, downtown, at rush hour, and then we can talk about it," Meg replied.

Crowley's mouth fell open.

"Not so nice when you're on the receiving end, is it?" Meg taunted.

Crowley grabbed for Meg, intending to pull her head off and play soccer with it, but the handcuffs made his motions ridiculously slow and clumsy. She danced out of his reach and before he could recover or adapt to the burden strapped to his wrists, she was running around the front of the SUV to the passenger's side door. She threw herself into the SUV and slammed the door.

"Drive!" Meg said, slamming the key into the ignition.

"Where?!" the Congressman demanded.

"That way!"

The Congressman stepped on the gas and the SUV shot off. Crowley was left in a cloud of dust and seething fury.

Crowley watched the SUV's taillights retreat into the night. When he got his hands on her—hands free of these ridiculous cuffs—she was going to wish she'd never been born.

Just as soon as he figured out how to get to Philadelphia without the whole demon and human world learning Meg had gotten the jump on him.

* * *

To Be Continued

The story about Jesus turning demons into pigs is legitimate. It's from the book of Mathew, though to be totally fair, Jesus doesn't turn the demons into pigs, but exorcises them from their human hosts and the demons then escape into the pigs.


End file.
